


Bets

by FracturedAspect



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Open Relationships, Past Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 21:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FracturedAspect/pseuds/FracturedAspect
Summary: Settling in to study the datapad that Ratchet had thrust at him, First Aid’s vents stuttered and he turned the offensive thing upside down almost as soon as the first page had loaded.… Why, in the name of Primus, did Ratchet give him this to study?Or - After a long, difficult battle, events conspire to make Optimus recharge in First Aid's quarters and they end up cuddling in a perfectly innocent manner. Naturally, the entire Ark thinks they're fragging. Somehow, this escapes their notice.Then they actually do start fragging. This doesn't make anything less complicated.





	1. Bullied Into Rest - Or Ratchet's Hobby; Traumatising People

**Author's Note:**

> So … I was working on the next part of my series about Bluestreak. Then I was like, nah, I've used up all my depressed for a while. Then I wrote this. Despite the explict tag, it's actually going to be fairly tame until about chapter five, at which point it's fifty/fifty plot and smut.
> 
> Explanation for the dub-con is in the end notes, but contains SPOILERS.

The first time it happens is right after a three-day long battle with the ‘Cons that left all the Autobots about ready to fall into recharge where they stood. No fatalities, thankfully, but twelve hours later all the medical staff were still working, the most seriously injured only just stabilised.

First Aid, having worked nearly nonstop since the battle's beginning except for a few snatched hours of recharge here and there, had sunk into the odd half-aware state of the truly exhausted, EM field pulled tight to his frame and every iota of spare processing power on the task at hand. It was almost a zen-like state, completely unaware of outside concerns, and it made him twitch in surprise when a hand dropped onto his shoulder.

Ratchet peered over him at Sunstreaker's exposed chassis, the unconscious warrior’s armour peeled back in half-melted clumps, circuitry fused together. His bared spark shone softly, weak but finally stable, and the blue light made the energon splattered across his internals glitter strangely.

“Leave him for now, First Aid.” Ratchet instructed quietly. “You’re too tired to do work you’re unfamiliar with. Go to Optimus instead – he’s mostly fine, but his arm needs rewiring and recalibrating before he has to go make nice with the humans tomorrow. Get some recharge when you’re done.”

The apprentice medic moved off without complaint – one of the first things Ratchet had drilled into his head was when it did more damage to work on a patient, and he knew he was rapidly approaching that point where he’d be more hindrance than help. Grabbing a different set of tools, he set what he’d need beside Optimus. The Prime was still awake, working one-handed hunched over a datapad even though he must need recharge as much as everyone else.

Tapping on Optimus's damaged arm lightly to get his attention, First Aid pulled out the supplies he’d need to do the rewiring and found himself soothed by the routine. Optimus gave him a faint smile and a warm brush with his EMF, although deadened as the medic’s field was for working with the wounded all he felt was a slight tingle before the Prime turned back to his datapad. First Aid made a mental note to take it away from him later; the Prime wouldn’t recharge otherwise, and he needed time to defrag before more meetings with the human government. Beginning the exacting task, he methodically stripped back armour plates and burned out circuitry, fixing components where it was possible and replacing them where it wasn’t.

They sat working in silence, the metallic sounds of the medical staff still working on repairs and the ventilations of the offline mechs who were recovering from their injuries the only background noise in the darkened medbay. An hour passed, then two, before First Aid straightened up and set his tools aside.

“You’re done.” First Aid told him curtly, pinging Ratchet. “Go recharge.”

“My thanks.” Optimus rumbled quietly, mindful of the recharging patients. Behind First Aid, Ratchet rounded the corner, pinging back acknowledgement and instructions. “I will rest soon.”

His servos twitched, started to tuck the datapad in his subspace, but First Aid snatched it before the motion could be completed, tossing it over his shoulder to Ratchet and leaving Optimus no time to try and recover it. The CMO subspaced it with a smug grin as Optimus gaped at them, pleased about one-upping the Prime.

“You can have it back in the morning.” Ratchet said mercilessly. “When you come to the medbay, first thing, so I can check that your repairs are holding.” When Optimus opened his mouth to protest, Ratchet bulldozed on, “and since you’re so eager to do something useful, you can escort my apprentice to his quarters on your way to your own.”

Opening his mouth to protest that he didn’t need the help, First Aid nearly sank to the floor in embarrassment when all that came out was a burst of static – his energy levels were so low that he’d unconsciously routed power away from non-essential systems like his vocal processing unit and EM field projection unit. Ratchet turned his smug grin on First Aid, unceremoniously shoving an energon cube into his servo. “Refuel, recharge, refuel some more.” Ratchet said sternly. “I don’t want to see you back here until your efficiency levels are back above 75%, I don’t care how long it takes.”

First Aid and Optimus stared at one another helplessly as the CMO stormed off, summarily dismissed, until Optimus chuckled gently and heaved himself off the berth gracelessly. “I do believe we’ve been given our marching orders.” He looked down at First Aid warmly. “Shall we?”

First Aid downed the cube that Ratchet had shoved at him and nodded in agreement. He really wanted the rest and ditching Optimus to walk back to his quarters alone just wasn’t worth the trouble – not once Ratchet found out, anyway.

The corridors were dim and quiet, the only bots still awake on watch. No longer focused on performing precise repairs, First Aid found himself stumbling every few steps, optics blurring from overuse. More than once, the only thing that stopped him from falling over was Optimus's warm hand on his shoulder, gently keeping him upright. He found himself glad that his quarters, like Ratchet’s, were only a couple of corridors away from the medbay in case of emergency.

It took him a second longer than usual to ping the entrance codes to the door, and he felt he’d never been so glad to see his quarters in his life. Stumbling inside, he didn’t bother to make for the berth room, dropping face-first onto the far closer sofa with a groan. With reluctance, he had to concede that Ratchet was right, as usual – he'd have probably ended up recharging in the corridor if he’d tried to walk back alone.

He was vaguely aware of Optimus hesitantly entering the room behind him and groaned in protest when the Prime’s gentle servos insistently turned him over. “You'll be uncomfortable if you recharge there.”

“Don’t care.” First Aid retorted fuzzily, the cube from earlier enough to restore normal power levels.

Optimus chuckled gently before lifting First Aid straight up off the sofa, to the protectobot's sleepy indignation. Wriggling in the Autobot leader's arms, he peered up at the larger bot and tried to express through glare alone how much he didn’t appreciate being picked up.

Optimus's lip plates twitched up. Sighing in defeat and embarrassment, First Aid let his head thunk back onto the Prime as he was carried to his berthroom. Above him the Prime laughed softly and First Aid giggled along, enjoying the simple comfort of having another EM field warm and heavy against his own.

The berth is warm, soft, and it’s an effort of will to keep himself from falling into recharge then and there. Pressing his EM field into Optimus', heavy with gratitude, First Aid earnestly says, “Thank you, Optimus.”

“You’re very welcome.” Optimus says without hesitation, but his optics are a little wide and his field nearly _lurches_ with pleasure at the gratitude, crowding around the edges of First Aid's EMF like he’s trying to soak up as much of the emotion as possible.

First Aid invents sharply, startled, and a second later that thick field is drawing away, the Prime visibly remastering himself. Before he can think too much about what he’s doing, the medic flings his field out at Prime’s, pressing against the other in a wave of _wait/reassurance_ / _comfort._

The Prime freezes looking down at the smaller bot, field inscrutable where it’s pressed against First Aid's.

“You must be really tired too, huh.” First Aid blurts out the first thing that reaches his vocaliser, because Optimus would never have lost control of his field like that unless he was exhausted. The mortification at saying something so useless helps to blot out the sudden pings from his medical database, demanding that he do something about the problem before him. What the hell is he supposed to do about this, anyway? He’s had about ten hours recharge in the last eighty hours, total. There is no way he should have to deal with this.

Unfortunately, there’s no-one else around to do it for him so he forges on recklessly. “When’s the last time you just sat down with someone and let your EM fields mingle?”

He doesn’t receive an answer, but he does catch a flash of _embarrassment/chastisement/guilt_ through that frustratingly difficult to read field. With Optimus, that's really answer enough, and he raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“You do realise that we need EMF contact the same way humans need touch? With similar negative impacts to mental health if we don’t get it.”

“Not everyone needs it.” Optimus said, and it was only the fact that this was _Optimus_ that kept First Aid from calling it sulking.

“A minority that I’m sure you’re not part of, given the way your EMF reacted the second you stopped actively controlling it.” First Aid says dryly. He can’t stop the sudden wave of exhaustion that sweeps through him from reaching his EM field, doesn’t even try; from the way Optimus's field trembles against his own, he’s not the only one who’d rather be recharging.

Impulsively, First Aid grabs Optimus’s wrist, tugging gently towards him. “Recharge here tonight.” He offers, EM field projecting _warmth/safety/companionship._

Optimus visibly does a double take, and First Aid winces as he realises how that could be taken, suddenly hyperaware of their respective positions. Optimus is seated on the edge of the berth, body turned towards it’s occupant; First Aid is spread out, limbs askew, lying strutless in the centre of the berth. It’s the perfect position for a larger lover to lie over him, press him into the heated mesh of the berth with frame and field, and First Aid hurriedly buries that line of thought before it could cause more than embarrassment to seep into his EMF.

“To recharge.” He adds quickly. “Contact with someone's EMF, even in recharge, should help you, and you’re just as tired as I am; you might as well save yourself the walk back to your quarters.”

Optimus stays immobile for another long moment before relenting, and First Aid shuffles away to give him room as he stretched out and lay down. His EMF doesn’t recoil from First Aid, but it doesn’t relax either.

First Aid doesn’t push. He wriggles around, gets into a comfortable position, and lets his EM field rest against Optimus’s as his shutdown protocols initiate and he finally drifts into recharge.

* * *

When he wakes, Optimus has _definitely_ relaxed. His EM field is wrapped around First Aid, a cocoon of warm, fuzzy feelings pressed right _through_ First Aid’s own field - the two intermingling completely - and up against his armour. Much the same way Optimus himself is.

Blearily trying to move, if only to figure out a way to wriggle free and grab a cube of energon, First Aid discovers that there’s not much give at all. Optimus’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him tight to the Prime’s chest. His helm is tucked under Optimus's chin, and the way that Optimus is leaning into him, long, long legs pressed against First Aid’s and body slanted over him so that the Prime is resting as much on him as on the berth, is enough to convince the apprentice medic that he’s not going anywhere without waking Optimus.

Humming quietly to himself, First Aid turns towards Optimus as much as he can and snuggles closer. It’s been a while since he’s been able to do this with his gestalt, as much due to his duties in the medbay as his gestalt's tendency to interface rather than simply cuddle, and he misses the closeness of relaxing enough with another bot to mix EMFs like this. He'd like nothing better than to stay here all day.

His chronometer indicates that it's nearly time for the day shift to start, though, and he knows that Optimus needs to visit the medbay before meeting with government humans. Ratchet probably hasn’t recharged since First Aid left the medbay, either, so he’ll need to kick the CMO out as soon as he’s finished fussing over Optimus. That will leave the usual post-battle clean-up to First Aid and probably Hoist; the wounded should all be stable, but First Aid will need to double-check their repairs and then start writing the reports on who is damaged and how badly for Ratchet to read and sign off on once he’s rested. And then he’ll need to do inventory to see how many parts they used and what they’ll have to figure out a way to replace later ...

A warm chuckle jolts him out of his increasingly worried musing, and he tilts his head back until he can meet Optimus’s optics.

“You're worrying already.” The Prime rumbled, gazing down at him kindly.

“There’s a lot to worry about.” First Aid defended weakly. He’d been too tired last night to wonder what Optimus's reaction to waking up in a berth with one of his medical staff would be, but if he’d thought about it he wouldn’t have guessed that the Prime would continue hugging him, both with his arms and his _field_ , dear primus. His field made First Aid want to curl up and never move again, perfectly content. “For starters, I have to kick Ratchet out of the medbay so he’ll actually rest.”

“That is indeed a task worthy of worry.” Optimus teased lightly. “Nevertheless, you shall not have to face the beast alone for I have an appointment with the mighty dragon first, if I wish to reclaim my lost treasure.”

“I’m not sure your treasure is worth facing the dragon to reclaim.” First Aid teased back.

“Aye, you are right.” Optimus said mournfully, optics sparkling with mischief. “But should I fail to confront the dragon, I fear he shall leave his lair in search of me, threatening all who cross his path; I cannot bear to endanger my people so.”

“That is indeed a noble goal, but you shall not face your fate alone.” First Aid smiled up at him, dropping the exaggerated speech. “You’re kind of a nerd, aren’t you?”

“I have been called that, from time to time.” Optimus admits. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“Who’d mind? It’s cool.” First Aid retorts. “Fuel for those who face the dragon?”

“Please.” Optimus said, EM field radiating pleasure and thanks at the offer. Feeling the arms that held him loosen, First Aid wriggles carefully free and slips from the room, heading for the tiny kitchenette. Behind him, he hears Optimus stretch, joints creaking, before following.

Unlike the berthroom, the kitchenette is far too small to fit a bot of Optimus’s size. He sits on the sofa instead, knees closer to his chest than they should be because the furniture is meant for someone smaller. It reminds First Aid of pictures they’d found on the internet of adults crammed onto furniture sized for children, and he smiles as he passes over an energon cube to Optimus, clutching another for himself.

They drink in a comfortable silence, EM fields still touching reassuringly. By the time they finish, First Aid has compiled a list of things he needs to do in the medbay. After-battle clean up is always a busy time, and he’s got a long list.

Optimus gets his attention first, though, with a deliberate ripple of his EMF against First Aid's. When First Aid looks up at him the Prime is watching him warmly. “Thank you for allowing me to stay with you, First Aid.”

“It was no problem.” First Aid replies, pleasure flushing through his field. “You-u can, uh ...” He trails off, suddenly nervous, but Optimus's undemanding curiosity shores up his determination. Sitting like this, with their EMFs so immersed in one another that it’s beyond difficult to hide what they’re feeling should make him feel exposed, open – well, it does make him feel like that, actually, but it doesn’t feel wrong, or dangerous, to leave himself so easy to read, and that’s why he continues. “You can stay again, if you need to. Or want to, I suppose. I don’t mind.”

Optimus's field wraps around First Aid, full of appreciation and gratitude and caring, an answer in its own right and worth more than simple agreement would ever be. First Aid can’t help the swelling of his own field in response, warm and light and happy, as the Autobot leader reaches over and pulls him into another hug.

“You honour me with your willingness to allow me into your home.” Optimus rumbled above him. “Thank you for offering me this, First Aid.”

They sat like that for long moments before Optimus finally pulled back, hands resting on First Aid’s waist. “I have duties to attend to.”

“Me too.” First Aid sighed, thinking of his list of chores. “Time to face the dragon?”

Optimus chuckled fondly. “Indeed.”

* * *

Kicking Ratchet out of the medbay didn’t go nearly as badly as First Aid feared. He went almost quietly, aside from a quick double take shortly followed by a vicious scowl aimed at Optimus when the two of them walked in. First Aid knew from experience that meant that Ratchet was truly exhausted, and would be back to using his biting temper long before he’d be fully recovered.

A newly awakened Jazz seemed to find the whole thing hilarious, holding in his mirth for only as long as it took Ratchet and Optimus to leave audial range.

“What is so funny anyway?” First Aid groused as he double and triple checked the TIC's health.

“‘is _face_.” Jazz gasped out. “Poor Ratchet, so defensive ‘f ‘is underlin’.”

“Why would Ratchet be defensive of me around Optimus? He’s the one who made Optimus walk me back to my quarters in the first place.” The apprentice medic demanded, bewildered.

For some reason, that had sent Jazz into another fit of giggles, and with a sigh First Aid gave up on forcing Jazz to make sense and kicked him out of the medbay. If Prowl hadn’t succeeded in finding logic in the saboteur in several thousand vorns of trying, there was no point in First Aid even attempting it.

There was far too much to be done to worry about Jazz's strange behaviour, anyway, and it was soon pushed from his mind. His morning was a blur of checking on patients, releasing who he could after giving them a follow-up appointment and threatening them with Ratchet’s fiery wrath if they didn’t return promptly at the given time. The medbay was a mess, and every moment not consumed by looking after patients was spent cleaning the berths, walls and floor, not to mention the tools and spare parts that had been left out or tossed aside in the fight to save lives. After that it was delegating the task of taking inventory to Hoist and Grapple, who grumbled about it endlessly, whilst First Aid got started on the frankly enormous pile of reports he had to write. Or, well, he didn’t have to, but if he left them for Ratchet then the CMO would try to do all of them. Probably in one go, and then the twins would be after his helm for letting Ratchet take on that much work.

It was a complete madhouse, and First Aid couldn’t have been more grateful when Ratchet arrived, took one look at his frazzled apprentice and ordered First Aid out for the day. He barely stopped long enough to tell Ratchet that he’d done most of the reports on the way out, although he couldn’t escape fast enough to avoid the datapad that his mentor shoved at him – no doubt it was full of information he was expected to review, memorise and possibly answer a quiz on.

Tucking away the datapad for later reference, First Aid made his way to the rec room to make use of his free time. It was busy, but his gestalt had managed to snag a free table and First Aid joined them cheerfully, grabbing his own cube on the way.

“You’ve certainly been busy.” Blades cackled as First Aid sat down. “Didn’t know you had it in you!”

First Aid, who'd been about to take a sip from his cube, lowered it without drinking. Eyeing his gestalt-mate warily, he enquired, “Do I want to know what you think I’ve done now?”

Waving his hands about in what could loosely be termed a conciliatory gesture, if this wasn’t _Blades_ , the other protectobot said, “Hey, we don’t have a problem with it, but if you want to play it like that, fine.”

Hot Spot, Streetwise and Groove all murmured their assent, and First Aid glanced around at them. On the one hand, he had no idea what they were going on about and should probably get them to fill him in. On the other, if they realised that he _didn’t_ know what they were talking about, they’d be just as likely to keep it a secret for a joke as explain.

“You shouldn’t worry about it too much, Aid. We’ve got your back no matter what, anyway.” Hot Spot says earnestly.

“Just let us know if you need anything.” Streetwise says with an intensity that First Aid doesn’t know what to make of, clapping a hand on First Aid’s shoulder. “Anything at all.”

... Besides, most gossip doesn’t last longer than a couple of days in the Ark. This would all blow over soon.

“Thanks, guys.” First Aid says weakly, silently wondering what rumour could possibly cause this reaction. “I really appreciate it.” And he does, even if he doesn’t know _why_ they feel the need to make their support clear.

“No problem!” Hot Spot said brightly. “Listen, we were going to go down to the shooting range and practice for a bit, wanna go with?”

After a moment of thought First Aid shook his helm, only slightly regretful. “Ratchet gave me a datapad to study. I really should get a start on that.”

“No problem.” Hot Spot said.

“We’ve got a while before we were going to head out, we'll sit with you until you’re done.” Groove added, gesturing at First Aid’s forgotten cube.

First Aid smiled back at them. “Yeah, that'd be nice, thanks.”

* * *

Flopping down onto the sofa in his living quarters with a smile on his face, First Aid sighed happily. The opportunity to spend time with his gestalt in a completely non-threatening situation didn’t come along as often as he liked, and he cherished it when it occurred. The closest thing was usually their trips to help the humans with whatever mundane trouble they got into nearby, but even then, they had to maintain a level of caution – some of those situations could prove life threatening to humans if the Protectobots weren’t careful.

Settling in to study the datapad that Ratchet had thrust at him, First Aid’s vents stuttered and he turned the offensive thing upside down almost as soon as the first page had loaded.

… Why, in the name of Primus, did Ratchet give him this to study?

Picking the thing up gingerly, First Aid scrolled through it, confirming that it was what he thought it was.

A compendium of interfacing-related injuries and ways to treat them?

His entire frame hot with embarrassment, First Aid stared at the datapad like it was about to bite him. On the one hand, he really didn’t want to read it. On the other, it would be just like Ratchet to quiz him on it – and if he failed the quiz, he’d probably be subjected to something even worse. Like Ratchet teaching him in person, possibly on whatever poor spark came to the medbay with these particular injuries next.

That was a humiliation First Aid didn’t intend to subject himself to. No, it was time to put into practice the first lesson he’d ever learned with Ratchet; being Ratchet’s apprentice was infinitely more bearable if he did what the CMO wanted the first time round.

… He still didn’t want to read that datapad though.

Steeling himself, First Aid picked up the datapad and set himself to the task of memorising everything on it.

It was harder than he thought to remember everything he read. For one thing, it didn’t just cover the injuries, it also described what probably caused it. First Aid now knew more about different interfacing positions and practices than he ever wanted to. For another, for each injury there was advice listed on how to avoid that in future, things the interfacing bots could do to make it more pleasurable. It wasn’t like First Aid didn’t know that Ratchet believed in giving people the tools to avoid getting hurt, especially when the injuries were small and easily avoidable, but really, this basically just amounted to giving interfacing advice to patients!

All of this meant that by the time he’d read all of it and was confident that the important bits were stuck in his memory, several hours had passed and First Aid was burning up with embarrassment. Gratefully turning the datapad off and flinging it to the side, First Aid stepped into his private washrack.

It wasn’t very big, more like a small cubicle than anything, and it only just gave him enough space to turn around in, much less wash himself, but then he only had his own washrack because the medbay didn’t have its own set, and his shift often left him covered in energon from injured soldiers. Someone, at some point, had decided that making all the medical personnel leave the medbay after their shift, go all the way to the other end of the ship where the private washracks were and then walk all the way back to their quarters near the medbay was stupid, and First Aid was eternally thankful.

Letting cool water run down his plating and soothe his overstressed systems, First Aid rested his helm against the wall. He could see why Ratchet had included all the extra information about ‘facing in the datapad – less work in the long run from idiots who hurt themselves, even if as Ratchet so eloquently put it, there would always be another idiot who wanted to blow himself up, but one thing was bothering him.

Why exactly did Ratchet feel the need to add, in his own handwritten scrawl, notes on how best to make sure no injuries occurred to the small bot in a pair with a not insignificant but not too extreme size difference, complete with truly horrific diagrams of preferable positions for safest penetration and a list of activities that would help stretch the smaller bot beforehand?

Groaning, First Aid dunked his helm back beneath the spray, praying fiercely that Ratchet would forego the quiz for this subject. One thing was certain; he was never, ever going to ask what his mentor’s reasoning for this was.

* * *

Smokescreen resisted the urge to cackle as the small gathering around him grew tighter. “So, gentlemech, what do we think?” He asked genially.

“No way.” Sideswipe disagreed immediately. “I’m surprised as the rest of you that Prime took someone to the berth, but he won’t continue it. It’d be putting poor First Aid in danger from Decepticons and he’s way too full of self-sacrificing slag for that.”

“First Aid’s medical personnel, there’s no-one safer for him to frag except perhaps the science mechs.” Inferno pointed out.

“And we work with Wheeljack.” Perceptor added dryly, to a round of laughter.

“They’re probably together.” Hot Spot decided impulsively, throwing himself into a chair in the ring they formed, gestalt-mates looming behind. “Aid’s definitely not the kind to go sleeping around.”

There was silence for a moment as they contemplated that. The whole Ark knew that First Aid kept out of his gestalt’s berth as much as their bond allowed, after some disagreement that had led to First Aid spending a week recharging in Ratchet’s quarters and unleashed the CMO on four very shamefaced gestalt-mates, shortly following which First Aid had received his own quarters near the medbay. Even now, the details were kept between those six, but rumours had run rampant for a while until First Aid had started talking to them again.

“I don’ think ‘e’s ever ‘faced wit’ anyone beside you, ‘as ‘e.” Jazz said thoughtfully. “An’ now Optimus.”

“Nope.” Hot Spot confirmed.

“Did you feel it when he was with Optimus?” Perceptor asked curiously, never one to miss out on science.

Streetwise shook his head. “Nah, but then First Aid usually keeps his end of the bonds locked down pretty tight, ‘specially when he’s on duty. Patient confidentiality and all that. We can block each other out, you know.”

“So, you can’ feel ‘t when ‘e gets charged up.” Jazz said wonderingly, before grinning. “Shame tha’. Be useful.”

“We might not feel it when he gets charged up, but he can feel it when we do.” Groove pointed out. “Even through his shields, if it’s all of us, and there’s enough charge.”

“So, if First Aid was on a shift in the medbay and you four got happy…” Sideswipe said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“No way!” Hot Spot said immediately. “It’d take Ratchet all of three kliks to figure it out and then he’d come to kill us, mid-interface or not. _So_ not worth it.”

“It might be if First Aid was with Optimus.” Ironhide rumbled.

Sideswipe gasped exaggeratedly, leaning away from the old warrior. “Ironhide, I never would have figured you for it.”

“I’m for the boss relaxing, which he has stubbornly refused to do for more vorns than I care to count. If the little medic is the one he can bring himself to frag, then he can have the little medic.”

“I think Aid should have a say in that.” Streetwise added. “That being said, what he has to say would probably be ‘yes’.”

"Or 'yes, yes more'." Sideswipe added with a wink.

“Yeah, but fragging – even regular fragging – does not a relationship make.” Inferno pointed out. “I’m all for the boss being happy at the end of the day, First Aid too, but there’s just no evidence that they’ve been meeting regularly, or done anything other than fragged, once, after a long battle.”

As one, optics turned to Red Alert who shifted uncomfortably under the regard. “I am not going through joor upon joor of security footage, just so you can decide if two bots are in a relationship.” He said flatly. “I have actual threats to be watching for.” Optics rolled and turned away as Smokescreen clapped his hands for attention.

“Alright then, who’s going to bet first? In a relationship, regular frag buddies or one-night stand?”


	2. (Not) Bullied Into Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Aid still has no idea what he's doing, and Optimus is still precious. The rest of the Ark has no idea what they're talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, this took ages and I'm kicking myself for it. On the other, I managed to actually finish this chapter before it became 2019! Hip hip, hooray.
> 
> (Also, I don't think there's a writer in the world that doesn't hate Jazz's. Bloody. Accent.)
> 
> (And I couldn't resist tweaking the storyline like ten times, so now you get smut early.)

First Aid onlined slowly, cradled comfortably in a warm EM field with a heavy weight resting on his chest armour. His engine rumbled quietly in amusement as he peered down at the blue helm tucked beneath his chin, First Aid's arms slung around the back of Optimus’s neck, cradling the Prime to his chest. Usually they woke the other way around, with Optimus covering as much of First Aid as possible with his own frame, but First Aid got the impression that Optimus had been having a difficult month. There had been human casualties in the battle whose aftermath had kick-started Optimus and First Aid's cuddling arrangement, and the Prime had been involved in several diplomatic meetings with human governments since then. They hadn’t gone badly and the last of them had concluded yesterday, but they always left Optimus ready to fall into recharge where he stood.

Of course, where other bots could see, 'fall into recharge where he stood' usually meant 'standing as tall and dignified as normal but with a slight slump'. First Aid was only now beginning to see just how much the Prime held back among his soldiers, when Optimus was being more unguarded around him.

They recharged together three or four times a week, usually, and First Aid has to admit that, to his bemused confusion, he really, really liked waking up alongside Optimus, EM fields entwined carelessly. He liked waking up with Optimus’s warm metal wrapped around him, cradling him close. There was an intimacy in being so near to someone you cared for, plating to plating, doing nothing more than listening to the idling of each others' systems, and it’s something he’d experienced less than he’d like in his life.

It wasn’t just the novelty of a warm, welcoming frame that he liked, though. He liked all of it. Liked the way Optimus would turn up at his door with his optics crinkling in what First Aid knew would be a sheepish smile, abandoning their battlemasks and First Aid’s visor as soon as they were alone together. The way he’d have to duck to get in through the door and move with exaggerated care to avoid knocking into anything, and the way that Optimus would watch without a hint of mockery when something did get dented and First Aid found it necessary to talk soothingly at the poor inanimate object. The way Optimus would let him putter about taking care of things at the end of the day, fetching them both energon. The conversations they shared, over energon and in his berth, about videogames, about their human allies and about the more amusing shenanigans the Ark was subjected to by its various residents. Anything and everything light-hearted, and always, keeping their EM fields pressed against one another.

First Aid had come to the inevitable conclusion that he _like-liked_ Optimus. Not that he planned on telling the Prime that.

For one thing, he wasn’t sure what it meant that he liked Optimus, or what he wanted from him. For another, he was fairly sure that Optimus wouldn’t feel the same way and even if he did, Optimus didn’t need stress in another portion of his life. First Aid strongly suspected that Optimus had no-one else to fill this gap in his life; partly because Optimus had actually taken him up on his offer of more cuddles, regularly at that, but more because his EM field still clung to First Aid’s when the Protectobot was particularly passionate about a subject, lapping up the emotions in his EMF with an edge of fascination that hadn’t faded.

Moreover, while First Aid had gotten to know and like Optimus, Optimus was also Prime, which brought a whole other level of difficulty to a potential relationship. To say nothing of First Aid’s own problems in that department.

Speaking of which, he had to tell Optimus about his upcoming night with his gestalt, a night that made his spark twist with reluctance.

Tracing the curves of Optimus’s helm with light servos, First Aid smiled as he twitched in recharge. That was another downside to liking Optimus, First Aid had discovered. He hadn’t particularly wanted to interface with his gestalt before; now he definitely didn’t want to.

The unmistakable hum of Optimus’s systems booting up reaches his audials and First Aid tries to let the worst of his disquiet and reluctance go; it wouldn’t help to make Optimus wake up to his restless emotions and there was no point wishing for something that couldn’t be changed.

Optimus lifted his head to look up at First Aid, optics flickering as they onlined. “Good morning, I hope I didn’t crush you.” He said teasingly, referring to his position sprawled across First Aid’s smaller chassis.

First Aid couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face in return, even though he was sure it was hopelessly fond. “I’m fine.”

Optics narrowed, Optimus’s gaze darts across his face as a frown grows on his faceplates. Dislodging First Aid’s arms, he shifts to brace his servos against the berth and hauls himself up until his weight is no longer resting on the smaller medic but hovering over him worriedly, one servo coming up to cradle his face gently. “What’s wrong? First Aid? Did I hurt you?”

It takes real effort to keep from rolling his optics at Optimus; the larger Autobot is almost excessively cautious about hurting him. Any thoughts on optic-rolling are put to the side, however, when First Aid's EMF involuntarily ripples in distress against Optimus’s. “You didn’t hurt me.” He managed to say past his suddenly uncooperative vocaliser, burying his face in Optimus’s chassis. The Prime pulled him closer, rolling them sideways until both his arms were free to wrap around First Aid, EM field projecting comfort.

“What is troubling you?” Optimus asked, and wow, that protective rumble lit a flare of pleasure in him that nearly wiped out his worries.

“I have to spend the night at my gestalt's shared quarters tomorrow, just so you know.” First Aid said quietly.

“And ... this is a bad thing?” Optimus ventured, confused.

“We need to keep the bond strong.” First Aid elaborated, hoping desperately that Optimus wouldn’t make him spell it out. It wasn’t exactly a secret on the Ark.

“Yes, if you don’t connect regularly it causes you pain, does it not? I had forgotten, actually ... the easiest way to do it is interfacing, if I recall.” Optimus’s optics are focused on his face, trying to discern the source of his unrest, and his doesn’t miss the grimace at the mention of interfacing, or the way First Aid’s field shuddered in momentary reluctance. “... You don’t want to interface with them?”

“Not especially.” First Aid made a valiant effort to stay light-hearted, but it was a losing battle. At Optimus’s deepening look of concern, he added, “It’s not bad, really. I care about them a lot.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to interface with them if you do not wish to.” Optimus says quietly, nearly stern. “Surely there’s something Ratchet can do.”

“He’s looked into it.” First Aid refuted. “Excessively, actually. I had to make him stop, he was spending so much time on something impossible to achieve. I bet he still works on it in private, though.”

“Most likely.” Optimus agreed, arms marginally loosening around First Aid even though the troubled note in his EMF didn’t fade. “He’s not the type to give up. Is there really no other way?”

“No.” The apprentice medic burrows further into Optimus’s chassis, the Autobot leader’s EM field engulfing him in _closeness/reassurance/comfort._ “Technically we can go longer than a month without interfacing, but then if anything happens and we’re separated for longer than expected we start to feel the effects really soon – dizziness, processor aches followed by aches everywhere and eventually hallucinations if it goes on long enough. There’s no way to put it off and altering the gestalt coding itself would be too risky even if it weren’t impossible.”

Optimus shifts next to him, still unhappy. “You should not be forced into someone’s berth against your will.”

“It’s not against my will, exactly.” First Aid objects. “They hardly drag me there kicking and screaming; I’d just rather not. They’d rather not too, if only for my sake. And the physical sensations are ... nice. It’s just not what I would choose.”

“What would you choose then?” Optimus asked. “If they could do something that would make it easier for you to choose it.”

“I’m not sure.” First Aid said thoughtfully. “I never was as fussed about interfacing as my gestalt seemed to be. I mean, I like it well enough, but they seem to do it more or less whenever they have downtime, when I was happier just cuddling.”

“Well, I’m glad I could do that much for you.” Optimus said, EM field communicating exactly how pleased he was to be able to help even a little.

“I’m glad I could do something for you, too.” First Aid stubbornly returned, deliberately rippling his EMF where it lay against Optimus, a pointed reminder of how little the Prime would take care of himself if given the opportunity.

Optimus's field pressed back against his in acknowledgment, something close to ... surprised gratitude, maybe, flickering through it. “And I am ever more thankful that you see fit to do this for me.”

“I’m sure anyone would.” First Aid replied, but Optimus is already shaking his helm, ruefulness welling up in his field.

“They would for their Prime, for their leader.” Optimus explained. “I am thankful for their support; it means more than I can express. Still, I am a mech also. Their expectations of me, however well meant, means I can never be anything less than that authority to them. You do not see me that way.” He blinked down at First Aid. “You do not seem to, at any rate.”

First Aid immediately shook his helm. He’d never thought to hear insecurity in Optimus, and he was determined to be rid of it as soon as possible. “You are Optimus, and you are Prime.” He says quietly, tracing his own servo lightly over the planes of Optimus’s faceplates in a reverse of the comfort Optimus had offered him earlier. “The two aren’t separable, but ... here, I think of you as Optimus, and when you’re out there, giving orders, you are Prime. You shouldn’t have to be isolated because of who you are.” First Aid pauses as he considers his next words and Optimus waits as patiently as ever, expectant but not pushing. “I offered you a place to stay because my medical protocols were going crazy at me and I was low on recharge besides. I saw someone suffering and I wanted to fix it. There’s probably a couple hundred smarter things I could’ve done, but I’m glad I gave you this, instead. I enjoy talking to you as a person, not a Prime.”

“I have enjoyed getting to know you in turn.” Optimus said quietly, field projecting his happiness and sincerity in nearly painful intensity. “I would be honoured if you would count me your friend.”

“Only if you count me as a friend of yours.” First Aid’s field is just as happy as Optimus’s now and neither of them can withhold their mirth, breaking into chuckles. When the laughter passes they are loose-limbed and relaxed, comfortable wrapped in each other's arms.

“You can stay here tonight instead of tomorrow, if you like.” First Aid offers, the thought of his gestalt no longer tying his wires in knots.

“I would love to, but I do believe my third in command intends for me to attend one of his parties this evening, willingly or not.”

First Aid groans. “Oh, that thing. Sideswipe's been trying to convince me to go all week.”

Optimus stifles a laugh. “Not one for parties?”

“Not at all. My preferred method of dealing with them is to hide in the corner, assuming that I go at all. You?”

“I believe I may join you in the corner.” Optimus said. “It’s quite unintentional on my part, but mechs tend to find enjoying themselves in front of their boss difficult, so I remove myself as much as my officers allow. Besides, I have an early video conference tomorrow morning.”

“Well, it can’t be too bad if we’re both in the corner.” First Aid said pragmatically.

Optimus ran a hand down First Aid’s helm, once more marvelling at the strange, compassionate mech in his arms who allowed Optimus into his quarters, his berth, so easily for just a chance to help. “Indeed not.”

* * *

True to his word, Optimus is sequestered in a darkened corner when First Aid arrives to a rec room filled with dancing bots, loud music blaring over the speakers with Blaster presiding over the sound system, Jazz aiding good naturedly.

He’d arrived later than he intended to, several bots colliding in the hallway during the pre-party haste delaying his own escape moments after Ratchet had made his, the older mech canny enough to know that someone was bound to get dented in the excitement and perfectly willing to let his apprentice handle it if it meant he didn’t miss anything.

Ratchet must have managed to make it on time, as he was already deep inside the dancing throng of mechs, apparently thoroughly enjoying himself. First Aid avoided his mentor's frame on the dance floor just to spare himself the inevitable embarrassment; Ratchet was a different mech entirely at a party, and First Aid thought he might spontaneously combust if Ratchet tried drunkenly flirting with him again. It’s true that Ratchet might be part of an extremely limited pool of mechs – currently consisting of two people – who First Aid might, at one point, have wondered what it would be like to interface with, but that doesn’t stop First Aid being terrible at flirting and drunk Ratchet enjoys flustering him more than anything – something that’s not hard to achieve.

At least First Aid's fears of Ratchet quizzing him on the contents of the datapad have so far proven unfounded, although the apprentice medic isn’t letting his guard down. Ratchet is far from above waiting until the opportune moment to strike. Granted, First Aid can’t calculate a scenario where any of this would be beneficial to Ratchet, but he also can’t calculate Ratchet giving him a datapad on interfacing with _handwritten notes_ and that clearly happened, so.

Grabbing two cubes of high grade, he sidles past the dancing frames resisting all attempts to include him until he reaches Optimus’s corner, the alcove sheltered enough that the music isn't quite so deafening here.

“I brought you a drink.” First Aid greeted, sliding one of the cubes over to Optimus as he seats himself next to the Prime. This is the first time they’ve really interacted outside of work in public, and First Aid finds himself at a bit of a loss.

“Thank you, First Aid.” Optimus said, taking a long pull from the cube. His EM field flutters around the edges of First Aid’s, somehow tentative. First Aid responds with his usual greeting, pressing back against Optimus’s EMF, although hints of confusion colour it. Optimus only projects _relief/apology_ back, leaving whatever troubled him unsaid.

Whatever awkwardness had been there disappears as Optimus pings him, opting to talk over their internal comms rather than shout in each other’s audials. The conversation picks up where earlier ones had left off, storytelling mixed with debates and light-hearted banter, just as easy and comfortable in a darkened corner of a party as it is with the two of them alone.

Maybe too easy, some distant unaffected portion of his processor remarks wryly, because while he and Optimus have been talking about human computer games and the less imaginative but higher quality Cybertronian equivalent First Aid has completely unwittingly managed to finish off a second and then third cube of high grade – Jazz, having taken to playing waiter when Blaster finally got tired of his hovering, delivered several more cubes for each of them, curiously winking at Optimus as he did so – and then at some point slid far enough along the bench to cuddle up to Optimus.

Now he was flush with Optimus’s side, legs curled up on the bench beside him and the larger bot's arm over his shoulder, a heavy and reassuring weight against the dizziness the high grade was causing. His EMF was a little less grounding, given that – First Aid glanced fuzzily at the pile of cubes Optimus had consumed, taking a second to make sure he was correct when the image swam in front of him – Optimus was probably as overcharged as he was, although the Autobot leader’s size was an advantage in that department.

He was broken out of his musings regarding how overcharged they both were by Jazz plopping himself down on the end of the bench, lifting First Aid’s pedes to make room for himself and depositing them in his lap once the saboteur had settled down for lack of any other place to put them.

First Aid only blinked bemusedly at the new development in the form of a madly grinning saboteur, but above him Optimus tensed, the arm around his shoulders tightening as a low growl rumbled between them.

Jazz raised his hands in surrender, but his expression wasn’t threatened at all. “Hey, no harm, mech! There’s not ‘nough space for all three ‘f us, tha’s all.”

First Aid paused to consider that, but most of his processor was fixed on the feel of Optimus’s thigh beneath his servo. He had to twist the joint uncomfortably to reach Optimus given the way that his arm was trapped between their bodies, but the smooth textures were well worth the minor discomfort and he practically purred as he stroked the metal.

Unfortunately Optimus had been devoting more processing power to Jazz’s presence there than First Aid had, judging by the way he interrupted First Aid’s study of his plating to pull the smaller bot onto his lap, incidentally pulling First Aid’s pedes out of Jazz’s lap.

Groaning a little at the motion, partly because it made him spectacularly dizzy and partly because now he couldn’t easily trace the lines on Optimus’s thigh, First Aid rested his head against Optimus’s windshield and squeezed his optics shut. This way the alerts about recalibrating his desperately struggling gyros decreased and the lack of visual input let him devote more processing power to analysing the feel of Optimus’s frame against his.

“Why did you come and sit over here, Jazz?” Optimus asked, his usual Primely serenity not hiding the faint slur or the – irritation? – in his voice, EMF curling around First Aid possessively.

“Huh?” Jazz still sounded supremely unconcerned, which was worrying, but now he sounded amused as well, which First Aid mentally labelled 'the Not Good Amusement of Doom'. Only Jazz enjoyed whatever was going to happen when he spoke like that. “Oh, th' mechs ov'r there were jus' wonderin' who Aid would name th' bes' person he’s ever fragged, is all.”

First Aid can’t stop the squeak that leaves him, darting a guilty glance at Optimus as his processor flings up images of the mech he’d like to frag before fixing Jazz with a wide-opticked stare, utterly unprepared for the casual enquiry into his interfacing life – not least because it was common knowledge on the Ark that he had no interfacing life. Embarrassment crashed through him as Jazz chuckled, impervious to the pointed and not entirely friendly look Optimus was sending him.

“No worries, mech, no worries. Ah'll jus' be off then, 'f yah don’ wanna answer.” Jazz stood and slid off into the crowd with his usual aplomb, cheerful whistling unheard over the music.

First Aid buried his face in Optimus’s neck, field still churning with embarrassment. Worse, now he was struggling to keep the thin thread of arousal Jazz’s question had ignited out of his field, his fuel processes leaping at any chance to expel excess charge once his interface subroutines onlined and the high grade influencing him enough that suddenly asking Optimus for a frag seemed like a really good idea.

Optimus ran a servo down his back soothingly, and First Aid shuddered. Each brush of Optimus’s servos against him, each shift of his thighs under First Aid’s weight, each grind of their chestplates as they vented together suddenly made First Aid want to tear his wires out for the charge crawling across them, for maddening pleasure eked out of his neural net by high grade and longing. It was too much, too soon but not nearly enough to satisfy, Optimus’s unintentionally arousing touches only making him want more.

Optimus’s servo came up to cup his helm, tilting it until their forehelms brushed and there was less than an inch between them. His field pressed close, solid and protective and warm, and First Aid’s EMF reached out in kind, arousal spilling out across his field and through Optimus’s until they were wrapped in a storm of warmth and lust, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to close that last bit of distance and press their lipplates together.

Optimus stilled beneath him for an instant, EMF fluctuating conflictedly too fast for First Aid to tell what he was thinking. Whatever it was though, Optimus’s own desire won; First Aid shivered in pleasure as Optimus’s arms tightened around him, lipplates moving as he kissed back.

First Aid took a moment to memorise the feeling of Optimus kissing him, Optimus’s field tingling with desire washing over his frame, Optimus’s arms solid against his plating. For all that his arms and field were both slightly possessive, the kiss was gentle and First Aid positively melted into it, opening to the glossa teasing the edge of his lipplates.

The gasp that escapes as Optimus sets about mapping the inside of his mouth is entirely involuntary, the slick warmth of Optimus’s glossa stroking First Aid’s, seeking out every movement, every sensation that makes First Aid groan and squirm to find more pressure, more pleasure. Dizzily, First Aid wondered what it would take to turn the tables on Optimus, and before he could talk himself out of it he licked up into Optimus’s mouth, the larger bot yielding to him with a low, surprised noise in his throat.

That noise flipped First Aid’s spark in its’ chamber, EM field going jagged with a burst of hungry arousal as he kissed, and kissed, wringing as many noises of pleasure from Optimus as he could. First Aid's fingers traced seams across his shoulders, his collar, down his chest, dipping in to stroke wires and ignite sensors wherever he could, until they broke apart breathless with arousal.

“Not here.” Optimus gasped, and First Aid was very pleased to know that his voice wasn’t at all steady.

Pulsing agreement through their entangled fields, First Aid slid/staggered off Optimus’s lap, tugging on Optimus’s servo as the Autobot leader hauled himself up. As much as he wanted to press his lipplates back to Optimus’s, they were in the middle of the rec room, and while plenty of mechs had no issue interfacing in front of most of the Ark First Aid had never been one of them.

Together they stumbled their way out of the party, ignoring the knowing looks they were given as they passed. The halls were deserted as the pair made their way to First Aid’s quarters, which he could only be muzzily grateful for as he opened his door. Optimus’s hand was warm on his plating, pressing against him solidly.

Optimus tugged him closer, and First Aid eagerly met him halfway for another kiss but made no move to push them to the berth, content to stand there and run their hands over one another. He enjoyed the closeness as much as the way charge leapt through his lines at Optimus’s touch, really.

But Optimus’s touch was so nice, hands exploring him firmly but not painfully, keeping him pressed close to Optimus’s chest as they kissed. It was hard to think, swamped with _pleasure/lust/want,_ but he had the vague feeling that he was going to regret this lack of control in the morning. “Optimus.” He tried to say, but it came out as a staticky moan.

That seemed to be Optimus’s cue, because he lifted First Aid up entirely, carrying the smaller bot through to the berth, placing the medic on the heated mesh before crawling on himself.

First Aid let the vague thought of stopping this float away as Optimus leans over him, cradling him close like something infinitely precious. This feels far too nice to stop and that he would want to is barely conceivable to him when Optimus touches him like that, mouth feathering a delicate path down his throat that leaves fire in its wake.

Hands that he’s seen do battle enough times to never expect them to be gentle are more than careful as Optimus teases him apart, arcs of electricity sparking off First Aid as he writhes under Optimus, desperately seeking more stimulation even as his own hands explore Optimus in turn. He gasps, moans, relishes the way that Optimus rumbles in pleasure above him as they both near overload, the feedback loop of pleasure between them almost overwhelming.

“Optimus.” First Aid gasps, watching Optimus’s charge-bright optics above him, and the plea undoes him, slumping over the smaller bot to steal one last kiss as charge flashes blinding bright between them, need and pleasure smoothing into _satisfaction/exhaustion/affection._

First Aid allows his flashing HUD to usher him into recharge, Optimus’s bulk shielding him from the world.

* * *

“Pay up.”

A chorus of groans and mutters followed the directions, but no-one argued with the Praxian gambler as they handed over various items; cubes of high grade, energon sweets and other ill-gotten gains traded through the Ark’s prominent gambling circles.

“It could be just another one off.” Sideswipe disagreed half-heartedly, slouched sulkily in his chair as Smokescreen started dividing and redistributing the goods.

“Two one-night stands is not a one off.” Prowl points out. “It is, at the very least, a pattern.” It was rare for Prowl to allow Jazz to drag him to these less than rule-abiding gatherings, but he made exceptions under certain circumstances.

“A true pattern requires three examples to be valid.” Another set of shuffling and sighs begin as Perceptor interjects.

“We have plenty of proof that they’re together!” Inferno hurries to cut the scientist off before he can start explaining the wonders of proper proof in science or something. “Tell ‘em, Red.”

“Optimus and First Aid usually meet several nights a week.” Red Alert said blandly, hiding his discomfort at the fiercely attentive faces of several of the Ark’s crew.

“Well?” Sideswipe demanded. “How often do they interface?”

“Sideswipe!” Prowl chastised, but the red frontliner was unrepentant as he leaned across his golden twin to better hear the answer. Ironhide, sat next to Sunstreaker, ignored Prowl’s pointed glare, just as interested in the answer as the Twins albeit for different reasons.

“How am I supposed to know?” Red Alert demanded. “They’re always very private, Optimus visits First Aid’s room frequently but they keep their relationship behind closed doors.”

Smokescreen leans in and wiggles his doorwings suggestively. “If you have cameras in the private rooms …”

“I do not!” Red Alert hissed indignantly. He saw enough of his crewmates interfacing in plain sight, he couldn’t imagine how much worse they’d be in private.

“For all we know, they’re just visits between friends.” Perceptor defuses the building argument quickly. “We haven’t seen much proof to the contrary.”

“Tha’ kiss though.” Jazz said lasciviously, grinning brightly. “Neither ‘ve ‘em are th’ type to sleep around.”

“That’s a’ least friends with benefits.” Ironhide agreed, sounding smug. Sunstreaker glared at him narrowly as Sideswipe puffed up.

“You’re just pleased because your boss is getting laid regularly.” The red twin said petulantly.

“’E’s your boss too.” The bodyguard grinned.

“But neither ‘f ‘em are th’ type t’ rush in, either.” Jazz points out. “’Ow long’ve they been meetin’ up? ‘Ad t’ ‘ve been in secret, Ah’d ‘ve noticed.”

“Last month can’t have been the first time First Aid’s treated Optimus after a battle.” Perceptor said speculatively.

“Yeah!” Sideswipe brightens. “They probably got talking after Optimus was injured sometime and kept it a secret to keep First Aid safe.”

Sunstreaker rolled his optics and shoved Sideswipe off his chair, ignoring his brother’s indignant squawk. “Don’t be stupid, this isn’t one of your trashy romances.”

Sideswipe scowled up at his twin. “Yeah? So what do _you_ think happened, genius?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Sunstreaker said irritably. “Optimus doesn’t need to be injured to talk to First Aid though, he makes time to speak with everyone. Maybe First Aid started cooing over something broken and he felt obliged to help.”

“Possible,” Prowl allowed thoughtfully, “but it’s statistically more likely for them to talk about their work – medical staff are some of the few outside Command in a position to understand the weighing of lives.”

“Yeah, but seriously, when did this start?” Jazz asked plaintively. “Because ‘t is seriously bugging me tha’ Ah missed this.”

“I don’ think they were fragging before.” Ironhide mused. “I’d ‘ave noticed the change in ‘is mood.”

“Even so, they must have been meeting for months, possibly years, prior to this unveiling of their relationship.” Red Alert concurred with Jazz. “It is troubling that they have been able to hide this.”

“Come on, they’re like, the least devious people on the Ark.” Sideswipe protested. “Of course we wouldn’t notice. Anytime anyone was suspicious they could just look innocent and confused and we’d never bring it up again. The only people who look cuter are Bumblebee and Bluestreak.”

“Spec Ops and sniper.” Sunstreaker coughed into his hand.

“Maybe after the disagreement between the Protectobot gestalt.” Prowl said, distracting Jazz from dwelling on the intel failure. “Ratchet would have had to inform Optimus of the particulars to convince him to authorise a change in quarters for First Aid.”

“Care to place a bet on that?” Smokescreen challenged with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Dub-con and past unhealthy coping mechanisms because the incident between First Aid and his gestalt mentioned in the first chapter is Aid interfacing with his gestalt-mates regardless of personal preference (he didn't particularly want to) just so he could be closer to people he cared about. Ratchet noticed, obviously, and chewed out First Aid's gestalt for not noticing how upset he was before bringing First Aid to his quarters for a week until First Aid's new quarters were ready, and making time to mesh EMFs with him every now and then.
> 
> More dub-con because, as mentioned, First Aid's gestalt-mates can force him to become aroused by getting worked up themselves, which is a situation that will occur later in the story. Optimus is there though, and he makes it all better. ;) Still dub-con despite mutual consent between them, though, because First Aid doesn't have a choice in getting aroused.


End file.
